


we were born for the gallows

by verasoie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Universe, Developing Relationship, Enjolras-centric, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Prose Poem, Short One Shot, The Shipping Is There If You Squint, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verasoie/pseuds/verasoie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You could say his fate was sealed the instant he walked through that door, but the truth is, he was already drowning. He'd always been drowning, and you hated it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we were born for the gallows

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this a little while ago for a school contest-y thing, and it's hella subtle and nobody I talked to could figure out what the hell it was about, but yeah! The cat's out of the bag. Enjoy!

He smells like cheap wine and sweat and yellowed paper and for a moment you hesitate and something in you wants to just _stare_ , but then he tosses his head back and looks bright blue into your skull and it’s all you can manage to drag your face into a grimace and turn away.

It’s not until he’s passed out, frowning and damp in his godawful corner, that you clutch at an elbow and hiss something confused and angry and hoarse into an affectionately dismissive ear.

You discern from the murmured reply that _nobody is exactly sure where he came from_ , and you’re tempted to shove him out onto the rainstained Parisian street right then and there.

A week later, you’ve done exactly that, and you’re staring down at your hands as he grins soberly up at you, and you try to fall asleep but all you can think about is the broken, hollow smirk on his face and _how much you’d give to punch it away_.

But he comes back the next day, all swagger and drink and insincerity and _mocking_ , and for a heartbeat of green you’re struck dumb by how he’s managing to tear your words to shreds from within his intoxicated stupor, and you _would have responded_ but your mouth is clamped shut and he’s winking and pulling the terrified scullery maid into a dance and you’re wrapping your fingers around his collar and slamming the door and _you’re this close_ to telling the staff to _quit letting that bastard into the back room_ , but your lips are still glued in a frown and hours later you find that you’ve been delivering distracted speeches to a gaping boy they’ve just plucked off the street and somehow _you can’t remember a word of it._

Another week, and you’ve deigned to recognize his presence again because he’s launched into a dreadful tirade that’s parading all over history and literature and philosophy and absurdity and he’s melodramatically clasping hands and smiling and _you kind of want to smile, too_ , when you notice that the bitter tint in his eyes warms a little when a poet leans over the table to pore over half-finished sketches and a law student grips his shoulder conspiratorially to whisper a dirty joke and you’re doing your best to ignore the paradoxical trainwreck of curls and miserable eyes but for some reason _it’s not as easy as you thought it’d be_.

He’s a good dancer, but the part that stings the most is that, years ago, he might even have been a good person, too.

Another year, and it’s a routine. He drinks, and you turn your back. You speak, and he argues, and sooner or later you’re seething in a corner while he drowns himself in the dark.

He’s a drunkard and a cynic, and you hate him for it. You hate his wasted talent. You hate his carelessness. You hate his hypocrisy. You hate the fact that despite how much you’ve tried, he’s resigned himself to a world gone to complete and utter shit. You hate his elocution, his winelaced fortresses of vulgarity and understanding and compassion. You hate how he looks at you, as if your words might just give him hope, because _at the end of the day he’s as addicted to shooting himself down as he is the wine_. You hate his spinelessness, and you hate his refusal to back down. You hate the way he breaks when you lash out at him, the way you can’t understand him, no matter how hard you try.

You hate the way he smiles at you. You hate the way he _knows_ the world you love just as well as you fight for it. You hate the way he’s always wrong, and you hate the way he’s _right_.

You hate the way he always seems to find you.

You hate the way he finds you now, devastated blue and pale, because _they’re gone now and it hurts_ , and he’s pushing his way through and raising his voice and the gray air is thick with the sound of _I am with him_ , and his smile is gone but he is softer than ever and for the first time in an eternity you smile back at him and his hand is warm _but so is his blood, and the last thing you taste is your blood and his burning your city down scarlet._

 


End file.
